Expect The Unexpected {s.h x reader}

Chapter 30

Y/N Watson

The woman. The woman that diligently sought every picture of us three. The woman who has porcelain skin, glittering eyes framed in black makeup, blood red lips, and smoldering confidence. The woman who is currently defrocked, vulnerable on top the only magnetic soul who seems to connect with mine. The Woman.

She makes quite an entrance, but why? Is it to show her desire for power in every situation? Attempt to make us vulnerable to anxiety? To make me jealous?

Well, it won't work.

My hands are steady, my chest is burning, but my assurance lies in the panicked look in the whites of Sherlock Holmes' eyes.

Clenched fists by his side. Restraining himself.

Tension in his jaw, shoulders, and neck. Possible internal turmoil. An ethical dilemma.

But that dark trepidation in his eyes is what sets it all apart. It may seem cruel, but his panic gives me hope.

"Having fun?" My venomous smile only heightens the fear swirling in Sherlock's face. His face, framed with discomfort and a bruised cheekbone, pales as he clearly reads me. He reads danger.

"Please, sit down." Irene's crimson lips spread into a polite smile. I nearly feel John's demeanor stiffen next to me as he silently clears his throat.

"I've missed something, haven't I?" My brother whispers in my ear, but all I can hear is the voice in the back of my head. It's telling me to take a seat.

Irene sways away confidently from Sherlock, who finally can catch his breath as he fidgets in dismay. Leaving John to stand aimlessly in the doorway, I loudly place the bowl for Sherlock's wound on the table in front of him, and cross his panicky body to sit in a black patterned arm chair.

"Oh, if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid." Her blue eyes dart between Sherlock and me.

"I had some at the Palace."

"I know." Her words seem smooth in the thick air around us. Confirming every racing thought in my head, Irene had seen Sherlock, me, and John in the streets of London. She knows.

"Clearly." I muse as I glance about the living room.

Irene passes to sit in the arm chair across from me. As if from the most cliché scene in a poorly-written rom com, the two competing women sit face-to-face on account of just one man. It nearly makes me laugh. Is there even a competition?

"I had tea too, at the Palace, if anyone's interested." John bites in a gravelly tone. But Sherlock isn't paying attention. His eyes are darting between the people in the room, his brows furrowing and softening intermittently.

I glance at Sherlock's demeanor for just a millisecond. In that millisecond, I see a certain light in his eyes. Not the soft light I relish when we ran together through the cold streets of London. Not the golden light I dreamed of when we first kissed in the hotel room. But a harsh, fiery light. A new burning desire that sends his jaw to tighten and wrench with turmoil.

That's what makes me nervous.

Sherlock Holmes

She was right, Y/N. My facade didn't work.

I should've known, I should've listened, but I'm Sherlock Holmes. I rarely listen.

She's graceful. The Woman. Her arms draped over her chest and her elegant confidence that fills up a room. She doesn't make me feel any sort of way. Just a dull nervousness like the hair standing in the back of your neck. But that dismay alerts the one right, correct, finite thing in my dark life.